


A Passion For Pleasure

by Berty



Series: A Fit Of Fashion [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Clothing Kink, Clothing Porn, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sherlock is a Posh Boy, Stylish Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 20:06:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15299055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: ' A Passion for pleasure is the secret of remaining young.' Oscar WildeA sequel to A Song Only You Can Hear. John and Sherlock are on a case... sort of...





	A Passion For Pleasure

“How about a change of scenery?” Sherlock had said. “A little spring-time country air? Put some colour back into our cheeks?”

To which, John had replied, “What’s the case?”

He may not have been born a genius, but neither had he been born yesterday. Sherlock? A trip to the countryside without a mystery to solve? Not likely! Surely it had to have been an eight at least to get him out of his beloved London!

Of course he’d been right and now here he was on a mercifully mild April morning at the Hurstwood Park All England Polo Club, keeping watch while Sherlock snooped, and trying to blend in with the county set. No wonder Sherlock had been specific about what he’d worn – a dark blue designer shirt, no jacket and a veto on all knitwear. Did being rich imbue you with the power of never feeling the cold or what?

“You know, you don’t have to trick me into coming with you on cases,” John murmured quietly into his mobile where he was connected to Sherlock, who was just a few metres away from him inside a horsebox that looked to be about the size of their flat and in much better shape.

“I wasn’t trying to trick you – and if I were, you wouldn’t have realised that was my intention, by the way – I simply wondered whether you might like to accompany me on a weekend of observing how very ridiculous the upper classes can be – it usually amuses you. Are you not enjoying yourself?”

“Well, it’s certainly more Möet, De Beers and Armani than I’ve ever seen in a field before.”

Sherlock huffed a quiet laugh. “Remind me to take you to Glyndebourne one day,” he rumbled, strangely intimate even though John still couldn’t see him.

“So…wait a minute, if there isn’t a case…”

“Oh, no, there is a case… or there was, but I solved it before we left London.”

“Then why the hell are we in Sussex?” John hissed, then smiled in his most non-threatening manner for the tiny girl who was leading an enormous bloody horse – and how was that a polo _pony?_ She ignored his smile, gave him a look that implied he was some kind of weirdo, and carried on her way.

“I had to recover the missing engagement ring,” Sherlock said in his ear, then muttered a curse as John heard a series of bumps and clatters both through the phone and through the wall of the horse transporter.

“Is that what you’re looking for now? Having any luck?”

“Ah, no. That was simple. He was having an affair with his groom; a young man whose aesthetic qualities clearly outweigh his intelligence many times over. I found the ring within half an hour of arriving and returned it to our grateful client.”

John felt his face screw up in confusion. “Where was I when all this was going on?”

“Probably trying to acquire some tea?” Sherlock offered carefully.

Letting that slide, John battled on. “So why are we still here if you’ve already…”

Turning towards the truck, he was looking directly at the door of the living quarters as it opened to reveal the shape of the posh, lanky idiot who was also the love of his life.

Sherlock had texted him the location and description of the horsebox, but he hadn’t waited around and had already been inside by the time John arrived to keep watch for him. So this was the first glimpse he was getting of Sherlock’s disguise, chosen to allow him to move around the park unnoticed.

John’s jaw must have dropped, because Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and his head tilted for just a second before a pleased raise of his eyebrows and a slight smirk graced his face.

Ending the call, John stalked over to a rather pink-cheeked, smug looking Sherlock. Stopping just short of him, he took his time to study the outfit in question from the shiny, chestnut leather of his riding boots and knee pads, via the snug, white jeans to the open-necked shirt, emblazoned with a team sponsor’s name and the number 4 on his chest. The deep vee of the collar highlighted the three moles on Sherlock’s pale neck that John secretly adored, and the short sleeves showed off his strongly muscled forearms.

John swallowed. “What did you…? Where did you get…?”

Glancing around the deserted players area, Sherlock stepped to one side and held the door open for John. “Get in,” he murmured.

He barely had time to take in the leather upholstery or the tasteful décor before Sherlock had slammed the door behind them and was on him, crowding him, stalking him further into the vehicle.

“Not just _normal person clothes_ then, John?” Sherlock breathed as John’s shoulders came up against the back of the living quarters where a couple of bunks were curtained off from the kitchen and seating.

Sherlock rarely used his height to intimidate, but the way he loomed over John, bracing his hand against the wood panelling and effectively trapping him there had John’s heart thumping madly and a familiar ache growing in his groin, which Sherlock helpfully slotted his thigh against.

“You _like_ this,” Sherlock purred and ran his nose along John’s jaw to settle at the perfect patch of skin behind his ear where John could never decide if he was going to squirm and gasp, or just come on the spot.

“On you? God, yes!” John panted, tipping his head so Sherlock could get a better angle.

His hand slid around John’s waist and un-tucked his shirt, spreading his gloved fingers against the skin of his back to pull him in tighter.

Hissing as Sherlock bit down on his neck, John tried to keep up with a boyfriend who seemed to be everywhere at once by taking a handful of his arse in those glorious jeans.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock rumbled, “Polo uniform. Interesting.”

Without a suit on, Sherlock tended to look about a decade younger - all eyes and angles and messed-up curls. How odd it was that seeing him in anything but his habitual suit had the side effect of drawing John’s attention to some of his favourite features of Sherlock’s face and body. And god! His lips… his lips were just impossibly perfect.

With a long, open-mouthed kiss to John’s neck, Sherlock went to his knees, using his teeth to pull off his gloves so he could efficiently unfasten John’s fly and pull out his mostly hard cock, running his fingers up and down the length of him and caressing his balls.

‘What if someone comes?” John croaked, unable to draw his eyes away from the long, perfect fingers wrapped around him.

“That is the general idea,” Sherlock deadpanned. “Do _try_ to keep up.”

“Sh... Sherlock, oh…GOD…” John jolted as Sherlock hummed against his skin in appreciation. It took some serious effort for him to put together a coherent sentence when Sherlock was breathing him in, teasing him with the slightest, most gentle kisses.

“I mean… what if someone comes in?”

Sherlock didn’t pull back, but murmured the words between kisses, licks and flirty glances. “We’ll tell them that you’re my team’s sponsor and that I am renegotiating my spot in your starting line up this season. You do look particularly… persuadable in that shirt, John.”

Sherlock took him into his mouth carefully, closing his eyes as if he were savouring the flavour and temperature and texture of him. John’s hand flailed behind him for support and found the edge of the upper bunk to clutch as his other hand took a convulsive fistful of Sherlock’s curls, trying to remind himself not to tug on them too hard.

Sherlock’s mouth was something that John had no words for – if he had, he would have written sonnets about it. His flatmate hadn’t been what one might call sexually experienced when John had first moved in to Baker Street and he had often wondered about that in the months they had lived together before Moriarty had been the catalyst that had finally brought them together. John still didn’t regret killing the man; in fact he’d have done it all again a hundred times over after they discovered the complexity of his plans for bringing down Sherlock. John had felt particularly satisfied at having taken the fortuitous shot when it was revealed that he himself was to have been the object of his flatmate’s downfall.

He still missed that gun, but Mycroft had insisted.

Of course Sherlock had procured him an identical one the following week as a token of his admiration. It was amazing what almost losing each other could do for overcoming confused, tongue-tied longing. And John, in return for the gift, had felt he should teach Sherlock to kiss and then sucked his cock.

He still thought he had the best of that deal.

Nobody looked at him like Sherlock did, John thought – like he was the most interesting thing in the whole world – like he was just waiting for what John would do or say next. They had surprised themselves and each other with how easy the transition from flatmates to best friends to lovers had been. For the first six months John had lived with the belief that the other shoe was about to drop and Sherlock was going to realise how very _ordinary_ he was. As it turned out, Sherlock had been thinking something along the same lines, convinced that his oddities and demands would drive John away once the novelty had worn off. They had both been relieved to find that was not the case.

It was three years now since they’d moved in together and almost two since they’d begun sharing a bed. Familiarity, far from breeding contempt, had mellowed them. Sherlock was still energy and arrogance and brilliance. John was still a thrill-seeker with an attitude problem. But somehow, now, they were this as well. Somehow they worked. And once they had come to trust in it, it had just improved with age. For the first time in his life, John could see himself settled, happy and growing old with someone – an anti-social, stunning, exceptional someone who was currently dressed like a debutante’s dirty fantasy and making John’s thighs tremble.

Eyes seeming to glow in the dim light of the trailer, Sherlock hollowed his cheeks around John’s dick, then paused to catch his breath, working John’s foreskin over his glans before diving in again, greedily seeking out all traces of John’s flavour.

John’s back arched and his breath stuttered as Sherlock pushed him closer and closer, taking him deep enough to make his eyes tear up, but when he looked up at John with damp eyelashes and a sparkle of that moisture in the corner of each John’s head thumped back against the bunks and he cursed as he came, releasing down Sherlock’s throat while he tried to remember not to fall over.

Then Sherlock’s hands were on him, turning him to face the bunks, bent from the waist while he rocked against John, his zipper and pants down and his cock snugged between the cheeks of his arse, dragging through the prickle of fresh sweat there. After a minute of desperate breathing, Sherlock pulled back and John knew from his soft noises and the steadying hand on his back that Sherlock was close. He felt him stiffen behind him and then the spatter of warmth across his arse and up his back and shirt.

Sherlock slumped down across John’s, the weight of him grounding and welcome. With a contented sigh, Sherlock stood, trailing a hand down John’s back, as if unwilling to lose contact entirely. He ran his fingers through the mess, rubbing it into John’s skin in a possessive gesture that made him shiver. John loved how deliberate it was, and how he would never be able to wear this shirt again without thinking of this moment. This would always be the shirt that Sherlock had picked out for him that had a part of Sherlock forever soaked into the weave of the fabric. In other words, John’s new favourite shirt.

He turned and pulled Sherlock into a sweet, slightly breathless kiss. “You never cease to surprise me, love.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock agreed, dropping his head onto John’s shoulder. “Why be dull?”

They re-dressed in silence, sharing lingering touches and _I-can’t-believe-we-did-that_ grins as they made themselves as presentable as possible.

“So are we done here?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded and made toward the door.

“And who did we nick the polo uniform from?”

“It was a spare that the client lent me. Why do you ask?” Sherlock enquired, stopping in his tracks, suddenly alert, his eyes pinning John.

“Well, we can’t return it like that! We ought to take it back to London, see if we can get your dry-cleaner to have a crack at it.”

“I suppose that’s…”

“And, although your argument was well constructed and had some merit, I’m still not entirely convinced that it was worthy of a place on the team,” John interrupted.

Sherlock’s eyes widened and blinked before a slow, darkly delighted smile broke across his face.

“Oh really? Well, I have a few more points I could make, if it would help.”

“It might,” John nodded and slipped past Sherlock and out of the door into the spring sunshine, although he had plenty of colour in his cheeks already.

**Author's Note:**

> So I got to thinking about what other outfits John might consider to be 'ordinary people clothes' - and then where someone like Sherlock might differ in that opinion -and this happened.


End file.
